Dear Sir IV

      It is early morning
      but I am stuck in late night
      and the transition from worrying the carpets
      to falling between my sheets
      is lost in the embrace of these
      riotous stacks of paper,
      shifting and settling before me.

      I have moments of
      tangible restlessness and fill the spaces
      between your words and my own
      with motion – chair fidgeting,
      nail biting, chain smoking –
      but the weight of it
      does nothing to still my rapid breath.

      To answer your question,
      I am confident that not a single one of us
      knows who we are.
      I’ve come to think I am
      something just short of anything spectacular,
      just a sheep in wolves’ clothing
      and for all of my posturing
      the fact remains
      that I am twilight through and through –
      down feathers, fall leaves.

      Though I am built of sturdy things –
      iron scraps and inch-thick bolts
      someone in the factory miscalculated
      and stuffed me full of jellyfish
      and overripe peaches
      and fuzz from the underbelly
      of a fresh-hatched jay.

      To be fair, I might be a catastrophe,
      the pained look a public speaker’s face as
      they struggle to find the rest of their words,
      hands jammed in their pockets.

      Perhaps though, I am none of those things.
      Maybe I am just a girl without a motive.



Jessica Dawson is a modern-day Wendy. She lives in California with Peter Pan, a baby bear and a future supreme court justice. Influenced by Richard Brautigan, William Carlos Williams, Rumi, and a desire to never be try to be Sylvia Plath, Jessica Dawson’s writing is a lyrical confessional. She abhors self-promotion but requires an audience at all times. She reads the dictionary for fun, speaks only in degrees of sarcasm and enjoys owning her children in Scrabble. Her first book of poetry, Fossil Fuels, is e-published by Words Dance Publishing.